


What You've Got

by MyckiCade



Series: The Things We Knew, and a Few We Didn't [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU-ish?, Greg Tries, M/M, Prompt: Violin, Sherlock Rare Pair Bingo Response, Vulnerable Sherlock, accidental roommates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-04
Updated: 2015-07-04
Packaged: 2018-04-07 15:32:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4268622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyckiCade/pseuds/MyckiCade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some things were just worth it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What You've Got

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. I am not that clever. This work is for fan enjoyment only. No infringement is intended.
> 
> Author’s Note: It’s been done to death, I know, but, shhh. I’m running with it, ‘kay? ;)?  
> P.S. I wrote this, a year ago, sooo... Yeah...

“What're you doing, here?” Greg asked, spying the lanky figure in one of the Yard waiting chairs, hunched over himself in a way that the detective sergeant had been witness to, before. He didn't care to think back to that, and his fingers were already mentally crossed that he wasn't to have to revisit the scenario. Male, nineteen years of age, overdosed and lucky to be breathing. Full recovery expected.

Change that to, full recovery achieved.

He hoped.

Taking a step closer, Greg crossed his arms over his chest. “Well?” he asked, again. “What's brought you by, Sherlock?”

It took a moment, but the younger's eyes finally turned up, Sherlock peering at Greg in a manner that spoke of everything, and nothing, at the same time. This kid... Heaven only knew by what grace he functioned in the day-to-day world, but Greg would have bet money that his straight-faced approach to all things did him wonders.

Right now, it was bothering the hell out of him. Not because it was blank, no. It was the same stare he'd been given some six months ago, accompanied by the same slight shaking of the shoulders, and the same frown partially-hidden behind folded hands.

Guilty? Possibly.

Afraid? _Definitely._

Greg sighed, then, moving to take the seat beside Sherlock, who visibly flinched at the sudden intrusion upon his personal space. “What happened?” It was all he could do to keep the well-earned accusation out of his voice. Sherlock had been clean and sober since their first encounter, Greg had made damn sure of it. He'd kept the kid under careful watch, not wanting to see him throw away his brilliance in the name of stupidity. Every dealer for three counties knew not to sell to the boy (not that Sherlock knew that, but he could certainly outsmart it, a fact not lost on Greg). If he'd been using, again, Greg preferred to think that he would be aware enough of it to put a stop to it. Again.

“There...” Sherlock cleared his throat, quietly. “There was a break-in...” This caught Greg's full attention in quite a hurry. Relief was his first reaction. Anger, his second. “I, ah... I came down to report it...”

“A break-in?” Unable to help himself, Greg huffed a quiet laugh. “I'd hardly expect you to need  _our_ help with that,” he admitted, his mouth moving before his brain could think about it. “I'm surprised you don't have the burglar cuffed to the next chair.”

He didn't realize his mistake, at first. Not until Sherlock turned to look at him with a saddened expression. “It...” He paused, and shook his head. “They...”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Greg interrupted, raising a hand to rest against the middle of Sherlock's back. Again, the boy flinched, but relaxed, a second later. “They took stuff, yeah? Something important?” A short list was already forming in Greg's head. Lab equipment, old books, a pocket watch on a gold chain... He was still wearing the only jacket Greg had ever seen him in, so, he could cross that right out.

A small nod brought him back 'round, followed by two of the most upsetting words he'd ever heard leave Sherlock's mouth. “My violin.”

It was Greg's turn to flinch, then. “Oh, no... They didn't?” Of all the low-down, under-handed things for people to do, even in  _this_ day and age... Sherlock loved that violin, revered it as his one true and constant companion. Where and when he'd originally acquired the thing, Greg had no clue. While he hardly believed that the boy kept it out of sentiment, there was something vitally important about the instrument. He'd be truly lost without it. “Sherlock, I'm so sorry... Look, we'll... We'll fill out a few reports, all right? See what we can do to get your stuff back.” It wasn't his division, technically. But, then again, Sherlock was hardly a technicality.

“I don't expect much to be done,” Sherlock replied, already in his version of resignation. “Several buildings have been broken into in the last few months, all likely by the same pair of criminals.”

“Pair?”

Sherlock shrugged one shoulder. “They've taken larger items, in several instances. And, for what little I know of human beings, I  _am aware_ that one man, alone, is not going to walk out of a residence, carrying a three-person sofa.” He sighed, a harsh, defeated sound that grated on Greg's ears. “It was pointless to come here, in the first place, wasn't it? I don't even know why I did.”

_I do,_ Greg thought, with a frown.  _You're afraid, and you don't want to admit it. But, you are. You're afraid, because you don't know what else to do._

“No, not a waste of time... Come on, then.” Bracing himself, Greg stood from his chair, looking down at the misguided youth before him. “Let's go.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Where are we going, exactly?”

“Well, I figure, since you're already here, we'll fill out that report.” Greg smiled. “Then, we'll get you something to eat... God knows, you need it.”

With a rather dramatic roll of the eyes, Sherlock stood to join Greg. Looking him straight in the eye, he inquired, “Is there really any point?”

“In which part?”

“ _Exactly._ ”

Greg's smile spread to a full-out grin, then. “'Course, there is. I wouldn't go to the trouble I do, for you, if it wasn't.”

Sherlock scoffed, a faint smile disappearing from his lips before it could fully form. It was a shame that the boy kept that expression so carefully hidden away. It would do him some good, Greg often thought, to let it make a regular appearance. Nodding his acceptance, Sherlock motioned for Greg to lead the way. Some of the rigidity of his posture began to ease out, but the fear... That was still lingering about his eyes. The uncertainty.

_And, I know it's not the first time. But, that's all right. That's what I'm here for._

 

. . .

 

“Have you phoned your brother?” Greg asked, unlocking the door to his flat, and letting them both inside. “I'm sure he'd be...” Right, he shouldn't have said that, and he knew it, too. Mycroft Holmes, running to the aide of his little brother? In not so direct a fashion, perhaps, but, it was highly unlikely. “Nevermind. Forget I asked that.”

Behind him, Sherlock closed the door. “Gladly.” Shoes and jackets where removed and abandoned by the door, Sherlock not moving from his spot, afterward. He glanced around the place, in what might pass for nervous, in anyone else. “You're sure your fiancee won't mind? I wouldn't want to get you into any trouble.”

Greg waved a dismissive hand. “S'no trouble, at all. Besides, we're not exactly, eh...” He moved a hand to the back of his own neck, rubbing, absently. Embarrassed. “Kathleen moved out, a while back, actually.”

A frown settled over Sherlock's face. “When was this?”

“About two months back, now,” Greg replied, shrugging. “No big deal, really. Guess we just weren't made for each other, like we once thought, s'all.”

Sherlock scoffed. “No two people are  _made for each other,_ Lestrade. Human physiology simply does not work, that way.”

“Well, maybe, love does?” Greg smiled. It didn't last long, however, upon catching Sherlock's dulled expression. “Right, right, yes, of course. I forgot. Love is merely a chemical reaction.” He sighed, long-suffering and exhausted. It was a speech he'd heard more than a thousand times. But, truth be told, he was beginning to believe it. It wasn't because Sherlock looked so smug, over in his little corner of the world, either. “Well, sit down, or something, huh? I'll get you a drink.”

“Tea, thank you,” Sherlock accepted, moving to take a careful, respectful seat on Greg's worn out old couch.

“God, couldn't you just drink a coke, like a normal kid?” Greg complained, only half-serious. He'd whined the question at Sherlock, before, and always received the same answer, which he silently mocked as it came his way.

“Just  _what_ portion of me do you consider  _normal,_ exactly?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Just, shut up, and turn on the telly, or something.”

“And, what do you suspect I'd watch?” Sherlock challenged, snidely, honestly sounding rather appalled. “A re-run of  _Resnick?_ ”

Greg rolled his eyes, filling the kettle and setting it on the warming burner. “I'll have you know, there's a marathon of  _Fawlty Towers_ on, this weekend.” A well-rehearsed banter, for all intents an purposes. After all, they both knew they'd just end up stopping on some ridiculous, staged talk show.

“Lestrade, it's Thursday night.”

“Shut up, and find something on.”

 

. . .

 

Sherlock's violin had been sold, according to the first of the two men caught in the act of burgling their latest target. The man wouldn't say to whom, or for how much, only that it was gone. Crazy as it sounded, the bastard sounded particularly smug about the fate of this one item, like it was some sort of a direct stab at Sherlock, himself.

Greg gritted his teeth the entire ride home, that night, not wanting to give Sherlock the news. The kid already thought he was a complete idiot, to begin with. Now, he'd gone and ruined the chances of getting the instrument back for him. Oh, he knew that Sherlock was going to be crushed, in his way. He'd go quiet, eventually nodding a silent acceptance, call Greg any variety of the term 'stupid', and leave. It was a scenario that Greg continued to play out in his head, changing details here and there, altering his approach in the hopes of likewise effecting the boy's reactions. Every path lead him to the same results, however. He didn't like that, not at all.

Entering his flat with deep trepidation, Greg hung his coat, leaving his shoes on for the time being. He listened for the sounds of Sherlock bustling about, if he was even in, at all.

Some glassware clinked in the kitchen, and Greg bit his lip, briefly. Yeah, Sherlock was home, all right. Lingering in the entrance was doing him no good, but, this wasn't a conversation he wanted to have. He didn't want to do this to Sherlock.

“Lestrade?” came the call, just before a head of curls popped out from the next room. He opened his mouth to say something else, but quickly stalled. “Something wrong?”

Damn, here it went. “Ah... Yeah, actually. Something we've gotta' talk about.”

Sherlock lowered his gaze, his lips pressing together, tightly. He nodded, once. “Yes, I thought that this might come up,” he mumbled, in a sigh.

“Sorry?”

“Not to worry,” Sherlock continued, a conversation that Greg suddenly felt very much left-out of. “I'll have everything cleaned up, shortly, and be gone before you are off to bed.”

Whoa, whoa, where had he lost control of this conversation? Before it even started, apparently. “Easy, Sherlock. Back up.” Greg smiled, a bit off-kilter. “You're getting ahead of... well, _both_ of us, actually.”

Sherlock frowned, looking at Greg with his patented, 'please, do try to keep up' expression. “No, I'm not. I was invited to stay here for an evening, until my locks were replaced. They were, and, still, I never left.” Running his fingers through his hair, Sherlock shook his head. “Believe it or not, Detective Sergeant, I _am aware_ that even _I_ can over-stay my welcome.” He made to turn back to the kitchen, shoulders hunched up, defensive. Really, that was quite enough.

“Sherlock, hey.” In three quick strides, Greg was close enough to the boy that he reached out, snagging him by the crux of his arm. Sherlock turned around, leveling him with what, on anyone else, could have been an apologetic look. Greg nearly laughed. The apology of an accidental roommate. It sounded like a bad comedy. The thought, in and of itself, should have sounded a bit ridiculous. When a couple of nights' stay had turned into a two-week stretch was beyond him, even now. Hell, he'd hardly noticed, until Sherlock had said something.

Obviously, though, his guest was keeping score, while Greg felt himself still searching for the board.

Fixing a smile on Sherlock, Greg kept a secure hold on his arm. “I'm not shoving you out the door, y'know?” No, what he was doing was bound to hurt, far worse than that. “I... It's just that...”

Understanding seemed to dawn in Sherlock's eyes. “A female guest? Should I make myself scarce for a few hours?”

“Oh, hell. No!” Greg sighed, pulling his hand from Sherlock in order to scrub it over his face. Taking a few paces in the opposite direction, Greg leaned against the back of the couch. “It's... It's about the men who broke into your flat.”

“You caught them?”

 _Well, try not to sound so surprised._ Greg nodded. “We did.”

Sherlock's eyebrows had nearly risen to the ends of the curls draped down over his forehead. “ _And?_ ”

This was it. Now, or never. “...-And, we still haven't found your violin.” Wait. That was omitting information. “But! I'm not done looking. Sherlock, I swear to you, I won't stop.” Apparently, his heart no longer felt compelled to consult his brain. Here he was, lying to the poor kid he'd been making unknowingly-empty promises to, right from the start. There was no hope of getting the instrument back, none at all. He'd called the pawn shops, he'd called second-hand music shops, he'd even scoured the daily papers in search of ads either selling or looking to buy damned violins, for heaven's sakes. If there was anything left to do, he'd have done it, by now. Why did he continue to lie?

Said lie, however, seemed to placate Sherlock, for the time being. He merely nodded, looking a bit disappointed, but otherwise satisfied with Greg's promise. “I... I do appreciate that.” That magic, disappearing smile came and went, again, in a blink. “Thank you.”

“Of course.” With a self-hating sigh, Greg pushed himself away from the sofa. “What do you want for dinner, then? Take-out?”

Sherlock smirked. “When was the last time you ate anything else on a Monday night?”

Mouth opening, wide, Greg mock-laughed. “I'll have you know-”

A hand was waved in his general direction. “Yes, yes, take-out. You can defend your own honor, later.”

And, that was that.

 

. . .

 

The idea had already formed in Greg's head before he could stop it. Before he knew it, he was logging extra hours, working himself to a frazzle, coming home in the dead of night to find Sherlock poking at something in a petri dish that may or may not have once been amongst the living. A week of the same, which soon became three, eventually turned into two straight months of a pattern he was, quite frankly, convinced was self-designed to send him to an early grave. He looked like hell, and so did his kitchen. The more Greg pushed to wreck himself, Sherlock seemed that much more determined to outright destroy his home.

All the same, it beat the alternatives.

It also paid off, so-to-speak, in the end.

“You look pretty damn bored,” Greg commented, circling the couch to take up the cushion beside Sherlock. The younger man was huddled up against the arm rest, eyes directed toward the television set, but Greg would bet money that he wasn't watching it.

Sherlock sighed. “It's going to take twenty-four hours, minimum, for that culture to germinate. After that, provided you're still breathing by the morning of day five, I can declare it a success. Until then-”

“Excuse me. 'Still breathing'?”

“A minor detail. Think nothing of it.”

“Oh, yeah,” Greg scoffed. “I'll try to remember that, for so long as I'm upright.” He fixed Sherlock with a pointed stare, which went on for several seconds, unnoticed. He took that time to have a good look at the body beside him. Sherlock had put on a pound or two, nothing to get excited over, but he was less and less looking the part of a walking skeleton, day by day. Honestly, this arrangement was doing wonders for the kid, Greg liked to think, whether or not Sherlock would have thought so. He knew it was doing wonders for himself, even, no longer worried about what the kid was up to when he wasn't around.

Only that his insurance would cover any damages done during an inevitable Act of Holmes.

After a while longer of Sherlock staring off into nothingness, Greg stood, moving to his bedroom. This seemed like as good a time as any other, after all, and it _was_ something that the lad _clearly_ needed... Greg's stomach was already a bit knotted up, even as he slid aside a couple of suitcases around in the closet, pulling free a small case. It was nothing special, a bit banged-up in places, and he was pretty sure that Sherlock was likely to laugh in his face over the whole thing, but, it was worth a try. He hoped...

Upon returning to the living room, Greg stopped a few feet behind the couch. “Close your eyes.”

Almost instantly, Sherlock turned his head, suspicious. “I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, just do it, already, yeah? I haven't got all night.” So, maybe, he did. Still, he waited until Sherlock closed his eyes, accompanied, as ever, with a heavily put-upon sigh. Just for that, Greg waited an extra few seconds before stepping up behind the couch. He eased the case over the top of Sherlock's head, carefully lowering it to his lap. “All right. Go on. Open 'em up.” With a small nod, Sherlock once again did as he was told. ( _Twice in one day,_ Greg wondered. _Miracle of miracles._ ). He waited.

_Silence._

All he got was damning  _silence._

Shifting, uncomfortably, from foot to foot, a few times, Greg figured it was time he opened his own mouth. “I, ah... I know it's not much, but...”

Long fingers slid over the case, but not a word was uttered by Sherlock.

“But, I know how much you miss yours...”

_Click._ The cover was eased open, slowly.

Greg swallowed. “And, I'm so sorry that I couldn't find yours... Hell, yours was probably a damn sight better than  _this_ old thing, but...”

“Lestrade.” At last, a single, solitary word, which had Greg snapping his jaw shut. “Do... Do you know what this is?”

“'Course, I do.” Why he sounded so unsure about it, he couldn't say. “It's a violin.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, an action his entire body seemed to participate in. “No, I mean... Do you know how  _old_ it is?”

Ouch. That was certainly embarrassing. Reclaiming his seat on the couch, Greg dropped his head back, defeated. “Yeah... Yeah, I'm sorry about that, but... Even with all the extra time I put in, I wouldn't have been able to get you a new one. Certainly not in time for Christmas, which was what I was holding out for, by the way.”

“Christmas,” Sherlock interrupted, at some distraction, “is not for another month.” He raised the bow, inspecting it, closely. The knots in Greg's stomach were only constricting, tighter.

“Yeah, I-I know that, but... I picked it up, yesterday, and I figured, why make you suffer, any longer, without one? So, until you can afford something better, I was...  _hoping..._ that this would do?”

It took a moment, but Sherlock finally spared him a glance. A glance that threatened tears. “You-?... You really put in extra hours, just to buy this?”

Greg's eyebrows shot up. “What did you think I was gone for twelve hours at a time, for?”

Glancing back down, Sherlock shrugged. “I hadn't noticed. Except that, it was more quiet than usual, while the sun was up.”

Again, Greg dropped his head back against the couch. “Oh, bloody hell...”

“Lestrade, this...” Sherlock paused, long enough to clear his throat.

“Is a piece of trash, I know.” There was no anger in his words, just the simple truth he already knew. “It was all I could get, and I'm sorry.” At least he hadn't made it so far as to try and pass the unsightly thing off as a Christmas gift. Happy fucking holidays, indeed, huh?

“Where did it come from?”

Greg shook his head. “Girl had an ad in the paper... About your age, actually. Belonged to her grandmother, and back through the generations, I guess. Said she was trying to get money for school. That being the girl, not her grandmother.”

It was the next round of silence that let Greg know just how spectacularly he'd ruined his own attempts. Sherlock placed the bow back into the case, closing it back up. He set the case on the coffee table, before turning his body to face Greg.

“That violin is over a hundred years old,” Sherlock stated. “Someone,  _clearly,_ had no idea what they were in possession of.”

Something about that sounded oddly hopeful to Greg's ears. “Is that a good thing?” His answer came to him in the form of long limbs flying in his direction, suddenly finding himself up to his eyebrows in pale skin and dark curls. Sherlock wound his arms around Greg's neck, hugging him, tightly. Smiling, Greg raised his own arms, circling them around Sherlock's waist.

“ _Thank you,_ ” Sherlock murmured, voice rough. Greg called no attention to it, just patted his back, a bit.

“S'all right,” he answered. “No reason to thank me. I was just doin' what I promised.”

“No. No.” Sherlock pulled back, a couple of inches, just far enough to look into Greg's eyes. “I mean it... No one has...  _ever_ ...” He blinked his eyes, several times, looking away the second it seemed as though he wouldn't be able to hold back. Greg couldn't help but smile. It was adorable, really. “The  _trouble_ you went to...  _No one-_ ”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Greg soothed, reaching up to smooth a hand over Sherlock's hair. “You know what? It was worth it.” Red-rimmed eyes turned back on Greg, disbelieving, and he smiled. “I'm serious. I'd do it again, if I thought it would make you even  _half_ this happy.”

Sherlock frowned. “What the hell for?”

“'Cause, you prat...” Tilting his head, Greg lightly brushed the tip of his nose to Sherlock's. And, there it was, that delicate, almost-smile that Greg had come to cherish. “You deserve it. Doesn't matter if 'no one else' ever has.” Lowering his voice to a whisper, Greg moved his hand, light stroking his thumb over Sherlock's flushed cheek. A touch the boy may or may not have leaned in to. “That's what you've got  _me_ for.”

 


End file.
